


a quiet moment (between the ending of worlds)

by arctickchild



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Referenced Polyamory, referenced character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 00:12:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11771397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arctickchild/pseuds/arctickchild
Summary: Shepard tried to prepare herself for the toll that this war would take, but the reality of it hits harder than she expected.





	a quiet moment (between the ending of worlds)

**Author's Note:**

> this is less of a fully fleshed fic and more a small figment of a larger fic that i do not possess the skill or energy to write out in its completion. sorry about that

Her quarters are dark, empty, and quiet.

Shepard pulls off her shirt as she steps inside, letting it fall limply to the floor. Her easel is still set up where she had it before the call came in; the canvas is half covered in indecipherable pools of color, her brush trembling where she'd dropped it on her way out. There's a sketch resting on the table nearby, dropped face down in the rush, another resting on the floor next to her bed where it had slipped from her hands last night.

It's freezing in here. She drops onto the edge of the coach, lying back to let the leather swallow her. Her feet are trembling where they glue themselves to the floor, vibrations snaking up her legs and into her spine like poison. The hamster squeaks from their cage, high and unhappy, and she turns her head, pressing it against the cushions to muffle the noise. Around her, the _Normandy_ engines buzz with silent life. The empty fish tank glows softly, blue stains across metal. Her chest aches hollowly, the bruises of the day settling into a painful story across her skin.

“Sam.”

Shepard stares at the leather back of the couch. She was in here a few days ago with Liara, plotting out hypotheticals and trying to build reports out of what information they can track down. She'd made a joke about – about something, the memory fogged by the wine they'd been passing between them and the strain of the last hours. She'll ask her about it, later. Liara will remember; Liara remembers everything.

The couch by her head dips down, and Sam cranes her neck back. Garrus' talons are gentle where they reach out to stroke her hair, slow and steady. He looks about as good as she feels, worn down and run ragged by losses both of them had underestimated the gravity of.

She scoots closer to him, resting her head against his leg, and he leans forward so she can wrap her arms around his back. “Hey,” she says. “Didn't hear you come in.”

He nods, slow and heavy. His mandibles are pressed tight around his mouth, hands trembling as they pass over her scalp, and she nuzzles into his stomach. It's warmer there, rolled onto her side, her knees aching as they curl to press against the couch back; not especially comfortable, but safe. Almost nice, but for the hole in her stomach.

Neither of them speak, for a long moment. Sam closes her eyes, trying to focus – on the ragged air shaking her lungs, the gentle scratch of his talons against her skin, a faint heartbeat that pulses stubbornly where they touch. It's different than she's used to, quieter and hollow where the third chord should be, and its better than being alone but worse than being together.

Thane had been cold, when they saw him last. Cold and quiet but never echoing, never as empty as this feels, with the pressure of his hands on theirs fading but reluctant to disappear just yet. There was something that needed to be said, then – something caught in her throat, a choked assurance that blurs the darkness behind her eyes and tightens her arms around Garrus. They don't have long for this – there are still battles to be fought, Reapers and Cerberus and politics waiting just outside the door for them to re-emerge. Things that should, by rights, be left to someone else, anyone else, just for a day or two –

_Has to be us_ , she thinks, and her jaw aches against the rush of guilt that accompanies the twisted memory. God, she hates it. Hates the guilt, the fresh wounds that are piling on one after another, the war that won't wait for them that they have to rearrange everything around. They don't have the days, the weeks and months that are needed to sort everything out. They don't even have an hour; soon they have to step up again, rationing their strength like the charcoal covering the pages scattered through her quarters.

Garrus falls still, and Sam breathes out slowly, carefully pulling her arms back, dragging her body up as she twists to sit upright.

“Hackett still needs my report,” she manages, and it's not what she means to say. Garrus nods again, reaching out to grip her hand.

“The Primarch will want mine,” he agrees, and it's not what he means, either.

Shepard squeezes his hand, and hoists herself to her feet. She takes a deep breath. Turns back to him. Holds her hand out, helping him up.

“Well,” she says, “let's go win a war, Vakarian.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> if you wanna scream at or with me about things you can find me on tumblr as arctick-child


End file.
